


Let the Ghost of Me Linger

by NewWonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fingering, Imaginary threesome (sorta), Irene is a tease, John H. Watson is a sex god, M/M, Not gay dammit!, Oral Sex, PWP, The Gown owns all, Unrequited love (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewWonder/pseuds/NewWonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows, Irene realises with a start. He knows what she wants from him, and he is willing to give it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Ghost of Me Linger

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is kinda angsty but mostly shameless porn. IDEK.

She shows up as unexpected as ever. For barely a minute John Watson wanders into the kitchen to fix himself a cuppa, and when he comes back to the living room with a steaming mug of tea in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other, Irene is already there, lounging on the couch that Sherlock usually occupies when he isn’t out or vilifying the kitchen with his ghastly experiments.

She has her fingers steepled under the chin, her gaze fixed on the ceiling, breathing deep and even, and she is stark. bloody. naked.

Well, save for the indigo dressing gown that sits too loose on her lithe frame.

To his credit, John Watson doesn't drop the plate. Neither does he slosh the tea. In fact, his face barely conveys his indisputably deep shock at all, even though he can't help but run his gaze down her body, moderately unsettled and vaguely appreciative.

Irene glances at him and slides into a sitting position, observing him from under lowered eyelashes. Her lipstick is pink tonight, barely noticeable on her lips, her hair is loose, flowing down in silky curls, and subtle eye shadow makes her eyes seem almost blue.

John Watson finally stops staring, coughs and suggests:

"Look, while I don't doubt that Sherlock would deeply appreciate your visit, he's out tonight for a night in the opera so he could later whinge at me about the soloist being a disgrace to music and reproduce the entire performance on an obviously much higher level in the wee hours of the morning, and could you please stop doing that suddenly-appearing-in-our-flat thing of yours, because it's really disconcert–"

"It's fine," Irene breathes, rising fluidly from the couch and throwing her arms around his neck, "I didn't come for him."

She smells of Sherlock's cologne. John's nostrils flare, and he lifts his arms to push her away. She silences him with a glide of her lips against the corner of his mouth.

"Alright, stop. Listen. Is it even safe for you to be here, in London, in our flat no less, where everyone can notice you com–" struggles the good doctor, ever reasonable. She tuts and taps him on the tip of his ridiculously adorable nose.

"I'd rather _you_ noticed me doing – just that," she chuckles, amused by his expression. "Oh, aren't you sweet. Sherlock did choose well."

"it's– it's all about him, isn't it?" John realises. "This – pose, this cologne, this gown– Oh god. I didn't realise role-playing was on your price list."

"I'm very versatile," she purrs and manoeuvres him over to the couch, his body practically unresisting – is it the shock? The sight of her naked body? The smell of the cologne he seems so eager to inhale from her skin? She's so very _excited_ to find out.

"If you want him," he gasps, "then just come and take him. I doubt he'd be likely to refuse. Don't make this into a game of substitutes–"

"Don't," Irene chides, "judge him by yourself. You know him, better than anyone, better than his brother or Jim Moriarty... or me," she bites down on John’s lower lip, viciously enough to draw blood. It's not a kiss, and his lips are still, unresponding, even though he's breathing heavily. She leans away, admiring the view of John Watson bloodied and dishevelled and out of breath, almost as if he were in the middle of a chase with Sherlock, – then presses into him, loins and breasts and skin, and the bitterness is soft on her voice when she continues:

"You know how he is, stubborn to a fault. He would never have me after I've betrayed him, would he, Doctor Watson?" she laughs, silky and brittle, "He's ruthless like that."

"You taught him a lot, John," she says, leaning down to him, "maybe, one day, you will teach him to forgive?"

"I'm counting on you," she says, slipping the buttons on his shirt from their holes, her fingers deft and nimble yet gentle and soft, her fingernails unvarnished, pale pink and vulnerable-looking without the armour of blood red.

She pushes the shirt from his shoulders, brushing the scar with the pad of her thumb and watching John shiver. The dressing gown pools over them in flowing folds, large enough to cover them both. John is rock-hard in his jeans.

Irene presses her breasts into his body, feeling it respond and mould itself against her, traces with her tongue everything that is so dear to Sherlock Holmes: the ridge of John's eyes, his cheekbones, his chin, slightly stubbly and scraping satisfyingly against her tongue, his ears, the tendons on his neck, the notch between his collarbones, all the skin Sherlock maps out daily with his eyes, all the warmth Sherlock's lips never tasted. Lastly, she touches John's lips with her own, senses them tremble and open, watches his eyelids fall shut, the breath of 'Sherlock' ghosting across her mouth, dissipating in her lungs.

He knows, she realises with a start. He knows what she wants from him, and he is willing to give it.

"I'm not him, you know," he deems necessary to state, unsteadily. "It won't be even remotely close to what you really want."

"It's the next best thing," she purrs, smirking mischievously and biting into the lobe of his ear. "It will be enough."

She kisses the back of his neck, milky and tender below his rumpled sandy hair, right where the muzzle of a gun had once rested. She remembers the arrogant, imperious Sherlock Holmes lose his composure instantaneously, because of the promise of a bullet kiss to John Watson's neck; she observes, with satisfaction, as Sherlock's most treasured possession, most prized person comes apart in her hands in much the same way.

"Uh, I should probably mention, I'm not much into, you know. That thing you do," John points out shakily.

"You're into danger," she reminds John, him now looking a bit guilty and uncomfortable. "You might object to the ropes, though, still a bit too vanilla – so I'll just have to bind you with my hands and legs, shan't I?"

And his lips fall open, and his eyes glaze over.

She restrains him with her body, as efficient as any rope, shifting against his crotch and having his mouth with her tongue. He puts up a commendable battle, almost taking over the kiss, nearly gaining power; the sweeter is her victory when he finally falls apart with a shudder, surrendering to her, letting her rapine and pillage all she wants.

His hands come to rest on her thighs then, steady and sure, sliding over her in the way that makes fire ignite under her skin, as the tips of his fingers ghost over her sensitized lower lips, swollen and smouldering with heat; deepen the touch, confident and forceful by the minute, and finally press into the folds.

She fucks him with her tongue, and he fucks her with his fingers, and she drinks the sighs from his lips, and he garners the shudders from her loins, and it is she who moans first. She jerks into frantic moving against his fingers, against his hips, and he pushes upwards, hungry and desperate, the seam of his jeans taut over his erection and rubbing so perfectly against her clit, and her body jerks uncontrollably, her cries into his mouth wild and piercingly loud, when she comes on his fingers and he follows her inside his jeans.

They slump against each other, panting and wide-eyed.

"O–kay," he drawls finally, struggling to catch his breath. "So that wasn't half bad."

" _You_ weren't half bad," she counters with a sly smirk against his shoulder, her body still rippling with spasms of pleasure. "Oh, Sherlock _definitely_ chose well."

"You _know_ we aren't like tha– You do that on purpose, don't you," he states flatly. She laughs, delightedly, and he finally chuckles, pulling out his fingers and bringing them to his mouth.

He licks his fingers clean, thoroughly, looking at her pointedly as she watches, fascinated. He sucks every single drop of her wetness off his fingers, down to the very last trace, and then he licks his lips, hungrily, his eyes calm and dangerous.

She is transfixed with his stare. She remembers with fascination just who John Watson is and why Sherlock had chosen him, of all people. She doesn't resist when he extricates himself from her grip and falls on his knees, on the floor where something corrosive has definitely been spilled, possibly more than once.

He kisses and nips across her thighs, on the underside of her knees, the tender crease between her hip and her groin, almost marking the soft creamy skin, the gown falling around them in soft glossy waves. He traces with his tongue the places where his fingers have been. He opens her and tastes her, drinking thirstily from the well of her loins; his tongue is quick and teasing against her softness, making her buckle and cry out incoherently, and she nearly slaps him when he pulls away momentarily to breathe, "Delicious," into her thigh. He holds her firmly with one hand, the other wandering across her body, cupping her breasts, gliding across her contracting belly, taking in the furious beating of her heart under her ribs and finally slipping inside her, fast and forceful, and when he slides his whole fist in, she jolts into a sharp arch and screams so loudly the people in the house across the road can probably hear her, and John shushes her with his mouth on hers, and she comes with her own taste on her lips, biting savagely into his mouth.

It takes her long to come to, and when she rallies, John is watching her. There's a wet spot on his jeans from before, and he's visibly hard underneath the fabric.

"My, my, somebody's been giving one hell of a performance," she breathes out appreciatively. "Tell me, what can I do to repay you, kind sir?"

He hums and says, "I'd ask you to make tea but, luckily, I'm not thirsty any more. The dishes could use some washing, though–"

He snaps shut when she pushes him down with her leg and stands over him, one foot on his chest, in all her hair-tousled, lipstick-smeared, bright-eyed, gown-clad, postcoitus-glowing glory.

"Hush, dear," she says reproachfully. "It's my turn to play."

"Open your jeans," she orders, letting the hem of the gown brush his face, his sides. He struggles to obey, his hands unsteady.

She slides her foot down, brushing over his nipples, dipping a toe into his belly button and finally skimming against his cock, leaking with pre-come and almost painfully hard.

She lets him find out she is perfectly able to keep her balance while giving him a footjob, and he gulps down air dazedly, looking at her with eyes wide and blown black. Then, she fluidly sinks on him, letting him feel her soft wetness with just the tip of his cock, as she unhurriedly starts to explore with her hands his body, laid out in front of her.

She slides her fingertips across his eyelids, watches his eyelashes flutter and lay shut. She cards her fingers through his hair, short and soft and warm. She traces the outlines of his cheekbones, his nose, his lips; she dips her finger into the notch between his collarbones and scrapes his nipples with her fingernails, hard enough to make him groan and shudder. She descends, letting the head of his cock inside, and when he buckles and strains to push up, she lifts her thighs so that just a hint of touch remains, leaving him desperate and his need unsated.

Her body looks supple and inviting but there's strength and ferociousness underneath the softness, and it will do well for John Watson to remember it.

Finally, when John's body is covered in scratches and scrapes, raw, chafed and bleeding, and he's oh so satisfyingly reduced to moaning and begging, she concedes mercy and sinks down, letting him inside. It comes as a surprise when he pushes himself up on the elbows, scoops her up and stumbles to the couch, his arms around her, her pussy around him.

"Sorry– The carpet– Potential biohazard–" he stumbles and falters, seemingly unable to produce coherent speech any longer.

She grins, amusedly, albeit somewhat shakily, and breathes out:

"What did Sherlock dump on that carpet... last?" There's a definite hitch in her breath when she slides up on his cock, twisting her hips just so.

"Oh god– You don't want to know, believe me," he seems to be still sour about whatever resided on the carpet prior to her visit, but she efficiently wipes the frown off his face with a nip of her teeth and a clench of her inner muscles. His hands are gentle on her back and her buttocks, and his groans are blistering on her skin.

She gives it to him fierce and greedy, drawing moans and blood, she has him fully and completely, down to the part that belongs solely to Sherlock. She smears Sherlock's couch with their fluids and marks it with their scent, so that a part of her would stay with Sherlock after she is gone. The scent of Sherlock's cologne is heady on their heated skin, mixed with the smell of sweat and come, and this time it is she who whispers his name, sinking her nails deep into John's skin.

They climax together, as she desperately rakes her fingernails across John's back, his chest, his shoulders, over his collarbones; making sure Sherlock notices, in the morning, when she is gone.

After they catch their breath, John courteously offers her tea and, on his way to the kitchen, steps into his cup that somehow managed to come out unscathed previously. Cold tea splashes on his heel and spreads on the floor in a dark puddle. John is swearing and rummaging for a cloth to take care of the mess when she slinks out, unnoticed.

She snatches the dressing gown with her when she leaves.


End file.
